


The Eleventh Hour

by EchoSilverWolf



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Canon Divergence, Drinking, Episode: s03e02 The Sign of Three, First Kiss, Fix-It, Fluff, Idiots in Love, Inspired by Art, John has an international reputation too, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, POV John Watson, Rizla, The Stag Night Fix-It (Sherlock: The Sign of Three)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-18
Updated: 2017-10-18
Packaged: 2019-01-18 22:33:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12397605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EchoSilverWolf/pseuds/EchoSilverWolf
Summary: Stag Night fix-it starting from the scene on the stairs.No case interruption."Even in the eleventh hour, it's not too late..."





	The Eleventh Hour

**Author's Note:**

> Partially inspired by this lovely piece from  
> Anotherwellkeptsecret
> 
> http://anotherwellkeptsecret.tumblr.com/post/127199843529/colored-lineart-commission-for-otp221b-thank-you
> 
>  
> 
> Betaed by Englandwouldfalljohn(theladyamalthea)

“I've an int’rnational re-reputation. Do you have an int’rnational reputation?”

John is barely able to make out the incoherent slurring of his friend, pressed close with his back to John's side on the stairs leading up to their flat.

“No, I don't have an international reputation,” he mumbles back sleepily.

Sherlock shifts a bit, somehow moving closer in the process, and goes on.

“Yes you do. It's... Three Continents. Something like that…”

John laughs.

“Heard ‘bout that did ya?”

A soft “Mmm” is the only reply.

John's eyes flutter closed. How did they get this bloody pissed? It was just beer and what he thinks was only a few shots. Maybe it was more? If not then, God, they are both lightweights!

He smiles to himself at a barely audible snore next to him.

_Guess mine IS a snorer…_

He may have wanted to throttle the man in Baskerville, but really, he misses those days. Back when it was just the two of them. When they were nearly one entity. SherlockandJohn. JohnandSherlock. And even if Sherlock was in no way _his,_ everyone else seemed to think so at the time. He may have fussed about the rumors, but he never truly minded.  

Truth be told, he would have been proud if they were true.

_I should have said so._

Mrs Hudson will never let them live this down if they don't move soon. Just a couple hours out and can't even get up the steps. He's not even sure how they got back here or _why_ they both chose to lie down instead of going up. It's only seventeen. Couldn't even make it up seventeen bloody steps? He should open his eyes. Should wake Sherlock up.

This will be hell on both their backs if they don't. Yet...the soft snores and warmth of one overly intoxicated consulting detective pressing firmly against him gives him pause. It's comforting and feels...right. That there should make it feel all wrong; however, he has the strongest urge to roll over and wrap his arms around the man passed out next to him.  


_Still. Those bloody feelings just won’t go away. Bit not good, Watson. Wedding..._

_Oh. But what if?_

_NO! He may not be a sociopath and he may have a lot more emotional range than he lets on but he's never shown_ that _kind of interest. Not in me. Not in THAT._

_Oh. But what if…_

He shakes his head and immediately regrets the movement. Turning more slowly he nudges his sleeping flatmate.

“Sher. ‘ey, Sherlock? Get up.”

The only response is a muttered: “Mm. Can't.”

John tries again, this time putting one arm over his shoulder in an attempt to turn him.

“C’mon Sh’lock. Need to...off the stairs. Le’s go.”

When long slender fingers reach up to interlace with his own where his hand is resting, slightly over Sherlock's chest, John freezes.

He doesn't pull his hand back or jerk away. He should. He is engaged and a week out from a wedding to a woman he thought could be a replacement for a man he thought was long dead at the time. A man who had meant and does mean the world to him. A man whose “death” nearly destroyed him.

A man who is actually very much alive. A man who albeit is very drunk has just entwined their hands and is holding them both tightly to himself. A man who, if John is painfully honest with himself, he has loved for years.  

_One more miracle, Sherlock. Just for me…_

There are those thoughts again. The what ifs and the could've beens...the wanting. It's been there so long he doesn't remember a time it wasn't - and for those two god-awful years, it was so strong it physically hurt. The I nevers and I should haves…

_I should have said…so many times..._

_What if I'm making a huge mistake?_

They need to move. As much as he would like to let this little moment continue for as long as Sherlock wants to indulge in a drunken cuddle or ...whatever this is, they absolutely need to get up or they'll be here in the morning, most likely to their landlady and incriminating ( though badly taken) mobile photos. Assuming they make it till morning; much longer and his sanity might be completely compromised by... _this._

He sighs and wiggles his hand free, to what almost sounds like a displeased whimper, and tugs his friend hard. Sherlock jerks awake and slips down two steps. Awake and confused and still impressively drunk.

John pulls himself up off the steps and reaches down to offer a hand to Sherlock, pulling him staggeringly to his feet.

“C’mon. Up you get,” and together they finally make it up and stumble through the door into the sitting room.

John, supporting most of Sherlock's weight, hauls him across the room and deposits him into his chair before unsteadily making his way to the kitchen to make some tea. Then, on second thought, grabs two glasses and a bottle of whisky and heads back out, flopping heavily into his own chair.

Sherlock, looking a bit more awake but not the least less inebriated, eyes the glasses questioningly.

John shrugs.

“Morning’s gonna be hell anyways-le’s make it worth it.”

As the night moves on, glasses are poured, emptied, and refilled. A bit slower now, letting complete inebriation dull down enough that they are both more cognizant.

Slurred stories are laughed over and somehow they have ended up playing that ridiculous rizla paper game.

Sherlock relaxed in his chair and John slouched into his own, legs splayed and socked feet pressing into Sherlock's ankles.

“Am i the curr’nt king of England?” Sherlock asks and John loses it.

“You know we don't have a king,” he manages through a laugh.

“Don't we?” Sherlock asks and John dissolves into giggles again - obviously another fact he chose to delete from that massive brain.

“No,” he replies and Sherlock flounces back heavily into his chair.

“Your go.”

John sits up too fast and slips a bit out of his seat. Without thinking he braces his left hand on Sherlock's knee as he catches himself and moves back. He feels Sherlock tense up at the touch and glances up to meet his eyes, but Sherlock’s are transfixed on John's hand. He doesn't pull it back and Sherlock doesn't pull away. In fact, he realizes he is gripping it a bit more tightly even though the need for balance has passed.

Through a thick haze of alcohol, he tries to read his friend's face.

Sherlock hasn't moved. Hasn't said a word. Just staring at John's hand, his eyes slowly lifting to meet John's with an inquisitive look as John sits, still touching him.

Suddenly the room is very warm and seems very small. Pale eyes lock with his and for the briefest moment he swears he sees something akin to wistfulness flashing in them.

Every thought of his impending marriage fades out and all there is is this. One of those charged moments they have occasionally found themselves in. Moments both have let pass without comment. This time feels different. Maybe the alcohol or the fact that John's hand is still gripping Sherlock's leg and Sherlock is allowing it. He notices at some point it has slid up just slightly. Sherlock's eyes breaking away again to stare at it.

He knows he should let go. He is pushing a line that has never and probably shouldn't ever have been crossed.

Lowered inhibitions causing all sorts of thoughts that could easily become words that he shouldn't say.

_I should say...why is it so hard to say?_

Instead he asks, “Am I pretty?”

Sherlock blinks, startled and confused.

John points to his head. “This, am i pretty,” attempting to steer them back to the safety of a  game.  

“You are beautiful in every conceivable way,” is the mumbled reply and the way his friend ducks his head and a slight flush creeks up those impossible cheekbones is the first tell that he isn't playing the game. By choice or accident he isn't sure, but it doesn't take a genius to realize the comment was not directed at the paper.

_Maybe...just maybe…_

Sherlock is looking into his glass like the answers to the universe lie inside and is actively avoiding his eyes.

“Your turn,” John prompts softly.

Giving him the chance to return to the innocence of playing this drunken game...or to push forward.

Sherlock studies him for a moment, before almost shyly ducking his head again. 

When his question finally comes even John can deduce which option has been chosen.  


“Am I someone _you_ find...attractive?” Sherlock asks his glass.

_Yea the game has definitely changed...a bit more dangerous, this..._

John swallows. Sherlock has let his walls down. If there was ever a moment for it, it’s here and now. It's right and it's wrong. The timing is shit...but it's now... It's not too late. Not yet. They are teetering on the edge of a precipice they have been balancing on for years, and John realizes he finds himself hoping they fall. 

A blurred line about to be irreversibly crossed; something has shifted between them and this may be the last chance to find out, for sure. 

The last chance…

_Even in the eleventh hour...it's not too late..._

_One more miracle...just for me..._

John reaches out to softly lift his friend's chin and gently pulls the paper off Sherlock's head before meeting his hazy, but still curious, kaleidoscope eyes - hoping beyond hope that this isn't a mistake...

_This isn't the mistake…she was._

“More like stunning. Gorgeous. Perfect...” His thumb is running back and forth gently against his friend's leg; he realizes he never moved it. His former flatmate shudders at the touch, as with a shaky hand John reaches out to press the small paper, face down, into Sherlock's palm. He lets his fingers linger against it for a moment longer than necessary.

Sherlock looks a bit thrown off his guard, that hint of vulnerability in his eyes remaining, as he stares at the upside down piece of rolling paper in his hand.

“John? I didn't make a guess?”

“Mm. You're right. Make a deduction then…”

Sherlock squints at him, drunk but adorable all the same, obviously trying to read him and coming up blank, before his eyes widen as John's hand moves just slightly higher on his thigh. He opens his mouth and shuts it again.

John holds back a drunken giggle.

_Well. This is a bit familiar…_

After several moments of that unnerving silent staring, Sherlock looks to the paper in his hand and John sees it, that look he gets on a case. When pieces of a puzzle start to fall into place.

“John...I...the game is over now, correct? This…” he picks up the paper but doesn't flip it over, “is not part of the game?”

John smiles, though his heart is hammering against his sternum so hard he is sure it is audible.

_Moment of truth, Watson. You're shit at this stuff…_

_“_ John?”

He closes his eyes for a moment, contemplating the next move. Then chooses his words very deliberately and answers, his voice betraying him with a faint quiver.

“The game is _never_ over, Sherlock...but... but it could change,” he gestures toward the paper trying desperately to look the soldier that he is.

Long fingers finally flip the slip of paper over and a shuddered and very tiny “ _oh”_ is the only response. Exhaled like a breath held too long .

John isn't sure what he expects to happen. If he is right, what then? If he is wrong?

He realizes the grip on his friend's leg is a bit too tight and loosens it but still doesn't pull it away.

Sherlock is still staring down. At his own name on a piece of rolling paper. Just two words.

There is a heavy silence for a few moments and then:

“So...in fact...this means...you…” the words trail off.

“Yeah. Yes. It does, Sherlock.”

“But...Mary?” he asks and John knew that was coming.

“Sher... She...she was always just a replacement...for….someone who couldn't ever be replaced,” he manages, his voice so low it's near a whisper. “Did I...do I love her? Yeah, maybe...just not...not like that. Not that way. Not _this_ much.”

Sherlock's eyes flick up to meet his, going impossibly wider at the last words, and John flinches and mentally chastises himself.

_Too far. Bugger! That was more than I meant to say._

The silence now is deafening. Sherlock's face has gone unreadable, most likely retreating into his own mind.

_Shit. I got it wrong._

He starts to pull back his hand, in embarrassment, when he is stilled by a larger hand closing down over it.

“Don't...John?”

The expression on his friend's face is one he has only seen a handful of times. Fear.

It takes only seconds before his decision is made, and only a second more before John slides onto the floor between Sherlock's knees.

Now it's John left blinking in disbelief as long fingers reach down and tentatively stroke his cheek. Those eyes, fully focused on him, wide with such an innocent kind of nervousness. Almost as if he is confused by his own affectionate actions.

When Sherlock finally speaks, it is in a voice as small and timid as he has ever heard coming from his usually overconfident genius friend.

“If this...if this is not acceptable, John, stop me now. _Please.”_

_The man never says please. God_ _help me, it nearly sounds like_ _begging_

”Because if it isn’t, I am not sure I posses the ability to do so on my own.”

John swallows hard and reaches up to touch the soft curls framing his friend's face.

_Always wanted to do this._

He tousles his hair gently, before his hand comes to rest at the nape of Sherlock's neck.

“I once told you, Sherlock. It's fine. It's...all fine. More than fine,” he manages to get out.

That's all it takes before Sherlock leans down, forehead pressing into his, as both take shaky breaths of each other's air.

“You've wanted this. John? You never said.”

“I did want this, always...i still do. I should have said. So many times I should have said. I just...I never thought you...”

“John? I am an idiot. _We_ are idiots.”

“Spectacular idiots, Sherlock.”

And the tension breaks into a shared laugh, which is abruptly interrupted when to his surprise Sherlock is the one to move forward, brushing his lips gently against John's. Obviously nervous and out of his depth but taking the chance all the same. 

It's chaste and a bit uncoordinated, and he pulls away as quickly as he started. His face a mix of conflicting emotions.

“You are getting married...I shouldn't have...what happens to us then…?”

“I'll talk to her tomorrow,” John whispers.

“But...the wedding…”

“Not going to be one.”

“I don't want to make you choose, John. An unpredictable life with me, over a normal one with her. I...I do not want to be a drunken regret.”

“Sherlock,” he sighs at the sadness reflected in eyes so close he can see every small color variation. He lets his head rest against Sherlock's forehead again.

_Easier without eye contact…_

“I made a mistake, yeah...but _this - this_ isn't it. This was always what I would have wanted, and I should have told you. So many times. Then you di-...you left, and i was so very alone...I thought, maybe, had I told you then, it would have stopped you. That I should have tried. Then you were gone...and I wanted nothing more than to follow you into the ground. I met her after that first year alone. At my very lowest point. If she hadn't been there…” he shivers and goes on.

“Then you came back...and I knew she could never replace you. That it was all wrong. I should have said then, but I was so very angry and confused...then the bomb...and God, I almost...but, even facing death, I was a coward. I never believed you could…we could...she was a just a substitute. A substitute for someone I thought I could never have. She was never, could never, be _you_ . It could never have _been_ a choice because there is no choice...it was always you.”

There is silence as Sherlock stares back at him with such a tender and vulnerable look that John drops his head onto Sherlock's chest, unsure what the verbal reaction to his rambled monologue will be.

He is startled when he feels a hand slide lightly up his back. Long fingers running hesitantly along his spine before coming to rest on his neck. His other hand still resting over John's own on his knee.  

He lifts his eyes to meet his friend's, lingering for a moment before Sherlock's close on a whispered “always you, John, always,” and John is leaning in to kiss him again, their mouths slightly parted when they meet. All the tension melting under the hand holding his neck. A breathy whimper is issued into John's mouth and he pushes further. Gently licking his way into Sherlock's, running his tongue over teeth and lips until another hesitant one joins in, sliding and pressing into his own. Years of unsaid things passing silently between them.

Lost in the moment and each other, neither hears footsteps, or the stifled gasp of their landlady, her cheeks flushing, as she breaks into a giddy smile before carefully easing the door closed, ushering the young brunette woman in the hall with her, back down the steps, recommending she stop by the next day.

Leaving her boys alone in the moment she knows has been years coming.

 


End file.
